


Kintsugi

by Zelos



Series: Sonder [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Betrayal, Depression, Gen, Grief/Mourning, High School, Moving On, POV Minor Character, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 20:44:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11997624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zelos/pseuds/Zelos
Summary: Her father loved her, but she bled all the same when loved with knives.Liz moves on after Homecoming.A sequel/companion piece toAdministrivia.





	Kintsugi

**Author's Note:**

> Kintsugi (金継ぎ, きんつぎ, “golden joinery”), also known as Kintsukuroi (金繕い, きんつくろい, “golden repair”), is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum, a method similar to the maki-e technique. As a philosophy, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise. —Wikipedia

They stayed at her aunt’s place until they found a place to rent. Her aunt only had one guest room, so Liz shared a bed with her mother until they got the keys to their rental (she suspected her aunt helped with the deposit). Her old closet was bigger than her new room.

Liz didn’t bring much with her to Oregon. Moving was expensive. Even the innocuous items that hadn’t been seized contained too many memories, old ghosts in every piece, on every page, in every thread. So many of the items were from her father, birthday gifts and rewards for school and just because it was Tuesday.

Every day was a battle, every day was a whirlwind. Endless name-change forms. Buying clothes, sheets, furniture. The first time she tried on a shapeless shirt in a thrift shop, she cried.

It was raining when they exited what would be her new school. Her mother held her hand like she was seven, not seventeen. Liz wasn’t sure if Doris was doing it for her sake or her own.

“This is a fresh start,” Doris said unsteadily.

Liz looked at the steel grey skies and thought it was a death sentence.

 

Liz had planned on applying for scholarships, she just…hadn’t gotten around to them yet. She’d barely started on her Early Decision applications before her life blew up.

She knew she was a great candidate for scholarships. But she’d always counted on her dad first and foremost. The five thousand dollars, ten thousand dollars, the full ride scholarships…those had been the ones she aimed for, because at some point it was a sliding scale of effort, and she wasn’t going to write essay after essay and application after application for what would amount to her dad’s pocket change. They were hers to take if she wanted them, but they hadn’t been worth her time. Her dad had said—often, repeatedly—that he’d make sure she’d go to whichever school she wanted, that he would make it work.

Promises, promises. Now she was scrambling for everything she could remotely qualify for and realizing her credentials weren’t as bulletproof as she had assumed.

Liz stared at the blinking cursor, her screen blank but for the topic: _please write an essay on a memorable event that provided you with a new outlook on life._

Her throat closed. Her eyes blurred. Her heart pounded a staccato protest against her chest.

Where should she start? Where should she fucking _start?_

_Please provide two letters of reference: one academic and one activity-related letter of reference. Letters should be typed on letterhead stationery, duly signed and converted to PDF._

She was two sentences into her email before she realized that this was her professional email, and the email address still said _Liz Toomes._

Five minutes and a new email address later, she pounded out the words with shaky fingers:

_Hi Mr Harrington,_

_I should have done this earlier, but I had forgotten with all the chaos in the last month. Would you still be willing to write a few reference letters for my scholarship applications?_

_Thanks in advance, I hope you and the decathlon team are doing well._

_Liz_

She’d just hit send when her phone rang; it made her jump. The call display showed a hidden number.

She glanced at the date, wiped her eyes, and picked up. “Hello?”

“Hi, Liz.”

She blinked back tears. “Hi, Dad.”

He called every other week, always to her, and only to her. They’d visited her father before leaving for Oregon. Even then, some part of her had known it would be the last time the three of them were a family under one roof. Sure enough, her mother had served divorce papers immediately after landing. Liz got a job shortly after that. Lawyers were expensive.

She couldn’t fault her mother. Doris had apologized up and down and sideways when she told Liz the news: “I’m sorry. You can still—I’m not—”

Liz had waited until she was alone in her room before she started crying.

“How are you doing?” Her father sounded like he always did nowadays with her—tentative, thin. Not like before. Before he was confident, just this side of rakish.

“Fine.”

“How’s school?” he tried after a moment.

“Boring.”

Their exchanges were stilted and only getting more so—every word calculated, careful to never bring up anything that could be painful. But he was her _dad_ —their lives had been so closely intertwined that there was nothing _not_ painful. The only approach seemed to be not talking. Their phone calls were filled with long, empty silences.

“Did you make any new friends?” he tried. “Meet any boys?”

Her heart skipped. “How could I?” Her voice tore out of her, hard and furious. “After your last _dad talk?_ ”

“Oh.” A long, painful silence. Then, softer, “ _oh._ ”

It’d been obvious once she actually thought about it. Ned’s PR campaign. Tony Stark’s ardent promotion. Peter ditching her at Homecoming. Her father’s arrest that same night. Flash losing his car and phone. Peter looking like a wreck.

She was a fucking idiot.

“Yeah.” Her voice was thick and numb. “ _Oh_.”

“Gumdrop—”

“ _Don’t._ ” She bit the word.

He fell silent with a bleak finality. She couldn’t even hear him breathe.

“Your mom,” that was even quieter than before, the measured words cracking at the edges, “served me divorce papers. She wants full custody.” A pause. “She wrote your name as Elizabeth Allan.”

Something in her chest cracked. She sniffled, tried for evenness and failed miserably. “I changed my name. I can’t have—this—hanging over me. This is—” her voice broke completely “—a fresh start.” There were enough stares and furtive whispers that she was sure this wouldn’t last long, but there it was.

“Okay.” She has never known her father to cry, but she thought he might be crying now. “Okay.”

“I gotta go.” There was no point in dragging this out any longer. She didn’t know if he’d call back again. She didn’t know if she could pick up. Her father loved her, but she bled all the same when loved with knives.

“Take care of your mother, Liz.” Her father sounded like a ghost. “As for me…if I’m dead to you, well, I understand.”

She hung up before she could answer.

 

_Hi Liz,_

_Unfortunately Mr Harrington is no longer working at Midtown, so IT forwarded your email to me._

_I’m not the best person to write a reference letter for you, but I reached out to your previous teachers and several said they’d be happy to write letters for you; they’ll be contacting you shortly for details. I also spoke to Mr Lam from Career Development and Ms D’Angelo from College Admissions. I’m sure you have similar staff at your new school, but since this was such an abrupt change for you, if you’re more comfortable with Mr Lam or Ms D’Angelo both are happy to help with any questions you have._

_Lastly, I know I wasn’t one of your teachers, but please let me know if I can help with anything._

_Good luck; we’re all rooting for you._

_All the best,_

_Ken Morita | Principal | Midtown School of Science and Technology | Office: 718-682-7132_

_kmorita@midtowntech.nyc.org_

Liz frowned at the email. Why in the world would Mr Harrington leave mid-year? Even temporary teachers usually finished out the year, and Mr Harrington had been a permanent member of staff the entire time she’d been at Midtown.

…maybe she should worry about herself, first.

“Hey, Liz! Your break’s over!”

Liz looked up at her store manager in the doorway. “I still have three minutes.”

“No you don’t. Get out there, now.”

Her phone’s timer begged to differ, but it wasn’t worth arguing. Liz donned her apron, shoved her phone into her purse, and went out.

Her dad had been the one to introduce her to coffee. He’d introduced her to a lot of things, from Indian food to Calvin and Hobbes; he’d given her the latter the day after her six-year-old self declared her presidential ambitions. When Calvin had ceased to inspire, her dad moved on to coaching manuals.

Liz liked blended frapps. Her dad liked his coffee straight, black with no sugar: “There’s no time for all that froufrou on the road.”

“There’s no accounting for taste,” she’d tell him as he went to pay.

“Same to you, Gumdrop.”

The man approaching the counter wasn’t her father but could have passed for him in a suit, save for the scowl. Her dad had never scowled like that with her.

She plastered a smile onto her face. “Hi, what can I—”

He cut her off with a snap of his fingers. “The usual. Make it quick, I’m in a hurry.”

Liz blinked. “Sorry, I’m new, what’s—”

“Fuck, do they not train you nowadays?” he spat. “ _Venti iced five shot non-fat extra whip mocha light ice caramel!_ ”

Her mouth fell open, but one sharp glare from her manager quelled her protest. Seething, she grabbed her Sharpie and the cup and headed for the bar.

She’d only been at the job two weeks. She’d only ever _worked_ these two weeks. Sure, maybe she wasn’t the fastest at this, but— _two weeks_. Most people probably weren’t even _operational_ for a month.

She might have slapped his straw down on the counter when she called his name. He snatched the cup from her so fast he nearly took her fingers with him, stabbing the straw into the drink.

He took one sip from the straw and literally spat it out over the counter. “Fuck, do you not know how to make a drink? Extra long shots, three on bottom two on top, _do not mix the sauce!_ ”

“Sorry, I can remake—”

“This is what’s wrong with you little shits,” he snarled. “Whiny fucks always crying into your phones, do this for years and still can’t even get a fucking drink right.”

Liz clenched her fists behind the counter. “I’ve been here _two_ —auuuugh!” The cup burst open against her front, blended coffee flying everywhere. A dab of whipped cream landed against her cheek.

He stabbed his finger into her face as she dripped caramel sauce. “ _Don’t_ —talk back at me.”

Two beats passed in silent, white-hot rage. Then Liz drew herself up to her full height and yanked off her sodden apron.

“Fuck. You,” she said, enunciating every syllable, and threw the apron in his face.

Liz was through the break room doors before the man gathered his wits. Five more seconds and she was out the side door, the man’s bellows still ringing in her ears. She hid behind the neighbouring McDonald’s dumpster for thirty minutes, until she was sure the man was gone.

It took her the entire four-mile walk home to stop shaking.

 

“Liz? What are you doing still in bed?”

Her mother frowned at her from the doorway one soggy autumn morning. Damp rained from the skies, seeped through the windows, trailed down Liz’s face. The room smelled faintly of mildew.

Liz stared at the ceiling and spoke in what she hoped was a rock-hard voice. “I’m sleeping.” It came out petulant, like a child.

“Are you sick? You’re supposed to be going to school.”

“I’m not going.”

“Why not?”

A stiff shrug. “Don’t want to. I know everything anyway.”

Even without looking she could hear her mother pursing her lips. “Liz—”

“It doesn’t matter.” She threw her blanket over her head like it would hide her from the world. She felt hot, seared from a flame under her skin. “None of it fucking _matters_.”

Even muffled through the blanket, Doris sounded uncertain and scared and annoyed. “You’re a _student_. Your _job_ is—”

“I _had_ a job!” Liz yelled, sitting bolt upright in bed and flinging the thin blanket to the floor. “I _had_ a job, and I _got fired_ , because I had to serve racist fucks all day who threw things into my face! And I’ll get another fucking _job_ , where they just look for warm bodies asking _if you want fries with that!_ ”

“Liz—”

“So what if I don’t go to school? So what if I fail?” She shouted the words, rage and grief and bleak. “Will top of the class at Backwater High get me to college? Will it get me scholarships? I can get accepted at Columbia and Yale and it wouldn’t fucking _matter_ because you care more about _your divorce_ than _my future!_ ”

She froze. Across the room, Doris looked like she’d been slapped. The colour drained from her face.

“I didn’t mean that,” Liz whispered into the silence.

“Yes, you did.” Her mother’s voice shook. The door frame creaked under her fingers. “Yes, you did.”

Liz buried her face in her hands, ugly, wrenching sobs welling. Her mother said something, but she didn’t hear a word, blood roaring in her ears. She didn’t know when her mother left.

She started screaming, deep and guttural, throwing everything across her tiny bedroom. The pillow sailed through the air, followed by yesterday’s shirt. Her phone buzzed—it hadn’t stopped buzzing for more than thirty seconds since yesterday evening—and she threw that too. It smashed into the wall, pieces flying.

Her watch. A pair of sunglasses. Yesterday’s homework. She flung them one after another, kept throwing things until there was nothing left to throw, until it was just her arms windmilling helplessly through the air without anything solid to hold onto. She was adrift and unmoored just sitting on her bed.

Liz Toomes. Liz Allan. Didn’t matter, in the end. Somebody from her new school had found a picture of her and her dad, some Facebook pic Google Images had scraped years ago. The short lived fresh start was over. She’d already deleted all of her social media and changed all her emails but she still remembered the messages. Piranhas, wolves, sharks. Blood in the water and they came.

She screamed and screamed until her throat felt grated, tears burning trails down her face, screaming until her throat was raw, until there was no sound left. She curled in on herself and cried until the tears ran dry, and slept.

Hours later, she woke to hands shaking her. “Liz? Honey?”

“Mom?” Her voice came out sick and jagged and raw. Every word sent knives through her throat. It was too dark. Her eyes were caked with salt, but through the cracks in her eyelids she could tell the sun had long crept across the sky.

“Hold still.” A damp paper towel swept across her face until most of the salt was gone. Liz blinked open her eyes to see her mother, makeup a little smeared and clothes a little dishevelled, heartbreak and love on her face. “Have you eaten anything today?”

Liz shook her head. She was still in her pajamas.

“C’mon.” Her mother pulled Liz to her feet, deftly weaving around the clutter on the floor. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

Liz sat at the dingy kitchen table while her mother fussed. Hot milk in a chipped thrift store mug, a grilled cheese sandwich. Liz ate slowly, every swallow a struggle. Her mother watched her from her spot beside the sink. The scant feet between them was a yearning gulf of loss.

Liz finished the milk and set her mug down. She didn’t look at her mom. “I didn’t mean it.” Her voice was still ragged, the timbre too low. She felt shattered, like a doll broken open to bleed, putrid and black and spoiled.

Doris’ face crumpled and she looked away, stifling a sob with one hand. She shook her head, cheap earrings bouncing. “I don’t blame you. I loved—love—your father. But I can’t—he _lied_ , Liz.” A quivering breath. “I’m _sorry._ ”

Liz looked down at the crumbs on her plate and thought of Peter.

Doris wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Her mascara streaked, little black trails of grief. “My temping won’t last forever. I’m…trying to look for positions in colleges. Maybe…maybe we can get tuition remission for you. I don’t know if I’d find anything at a school you’d want to go to, but…I’m _trying_.” Her mother looked the same way she did when the news first broke, hollow and wrung out. “I can’t _help_ you anymore, Liz.”

“I want to go _home._ ” Home to her friends and quality education and a house that didn’t smell of mildew. To her dad embarrassing her with terrible jokes, to a life that didn’t mean meal vouchers at school. Dry sobs welled; she had no tears left.

Her mother sat down and embraced her. “We can’t, honey. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, clinging to each other, sniffles accompanied by the buzz of fluorescent lights. Eventually, Liz peeled away. “I should do my homework.” Her whole body felt empty and numb, like someone had opened her up and scooped out the insides.

“I…I was thinking about that. What you said earlier.” Doris’ lips trembled. “I thought…maybe we’re no longer in New York, but we might be able to get you back into Midtown.”

Liz stilled. “What?”

“When Ruth’s son caught mono, he took classes by distance for a term, maybe two. I’ve heard of other students doing online learning too. Maybe it won’t work, maybe it was a medical accommodation, but…it’s worth a shot, right?” Doris managed a watery smile. “If you could, would you go back to Midtown, even by distance?”

“Yes.” It wasn’t even a question. Midtown’s quality of education. The weight of Midtown’s name on her college and scholarship applications. The presence of her friends, even via distance. “ _Yes._ ”

Her mother squeezed her hand. “I’ll call your principal tomorrow.”

 

Liz skipped school the next day as well. She left with her mother, and when Doris went to work Liz went into a neighbouring Starbucks to while away the hours. She took a corner booth, ordered a shaken tea, and tipped extra every time she asked for a refill.

Her mother swept in four hours later, already dialing her phone as she sat down. “Forty minute lunch, but I requested an appointment with your principal, so we should have time to spare.”

“Your phone, right?” Liz’s phone was still working after her tantrum last night—the protective case had broke and she’d cracked her screen—but she wouldn’t trust it with an important call. “Want me to get you something?”

Doris shook her head and pressed her phone to her ear. Liz fell silent.

“Hello, I had a call scheduled with Principal Morita, if you could transfer me…? Yes, I’ll hold.” Her voice cracked ever-so-slightly as she continued, “my name is Doris. Doris Allan.”

Liz squeezed her mother’s hand. Doris glanced over and squeezed back, then sat up. “Mr Morita? This is Doris Allan.” A pause. “I’m doing well. Thanks for taking the time to talk with me. I wanted to ask about the possibility of distance learning for my daughter, Liz…”

It was noisy in the Starbucks; Doris had one hand pressed to her other ear to hear her phone. Liz couldn’t hear the principal at all. After the initial greeting, her mother’s side of the conversation turned almost entirely into “mm-hmm” and “yes”. Liz has no idea what that meant.

“Yes, she is,” Doris said, and Liz jerked back to attention. “One sec.” She passed Liz the phone. “Your principal wants to talk to you.”

_Your principal._ Like it was a foregone conclusion. Liz wasn’t sure if that was intentional. She pressed the phone to her ear, hands shaking. “Hi Mr Morita.”

“Hi Liz.” The voice was warm and kind and a little unfamiliar. She’d never really heard him speak outside of announcements and school assemblies. “How are you doing?”

“I’m good,” she lied.

“Your mother said you’d like to enroll in distance learning, taking your old classes online.”

“Yeah.” The words poured out of her in a rush like a dam had been broken. “I just—I can’t—the schools here are _terrible_. After Midtown, after decathlon…I can do these classes in my sleep. Some days I think I know more than the teachers.” She fidgeted, indignation warring with consternation like she might’ve insulted the one person who could help her. Professional solidarity and all that. “I don’t want this school to be on my transcript when it comes time for college. They don’t even have a career counsellor or college admissions person here.”

“There are magnet schools in Oregon,” Mr Morita pointed out. “Five, I think.”

It probably shouldn’t surprise her that he knew this off the top of his head. “None of them hold a candle to Midtown.” She wasn’t just buttering him up, either. Oregon’s education system was broke as hell, and it showed, even in the so-called magnet schools. “And I can’t _go_ there, I…” she faltered, not willing to admit that they simply didn’t have the money to live in those neighborhoods, couldn’t physically attend those schools. “I’m not even sure if they’re set up for distance ed. If I have to do distance I might as well do it at a good school.”

“Liz,” he started quietly.

“It’s not just the education, it’s the _name_. I hadn’t sent that many college applications out. I’d have to explain why I changed schools. The ones I hadn’t applied to, the schools, the scholarships—they’re not going to be impressed by a transcript from Backwater High.” She was pleading a little, her voice hitching in odd places. “Please—you asked if you could help, and I just…”

He was quiet for a moment. “Midtown is set up for online learning, but it’s generally restricted to in-district students.”

She closed her eyes, fighting back tears. “So that’s a no.”

“Do you have any friends or relatives still in the district whose address you can use?”

She had to think about that one. Friends…she had friends. Were they still her friends? She wanted to think so. But Oregon had taught her even blank slates weren’t enough to wipe away prejudices. “Yeah. I have…cousins. I can’t move back, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, that’s not it.” A thoughtful pause. “If you re-register in the district with their address…of course, we’d have to disclose that you’re actually in Oregon, but…we might be able to work something out.”

Hope surged in her chest. “I…really?”

Mr Morita sounded wry. “I know someone. Who know…a couple of someones. I admit I don’t think much of his abilities to respect _or_ circumvent due process, but his better half might be more helpful here.”

That made no sense at all. Doris looked askance at her; she shrugged helplessly back. “So…is that a yes?”

“It’s a maybe. The rules as written would say no, but she has handled much more complicated things than a high school diploma.” The wryness faded back to concern. “Liz, even if this works…you’ll be in for a slog. It’s already almost halfway through the school year.”

“I know. But it’s better than letting my brain stagnate here. I want to go to a good school. I want to actually learn something. Isn’t that the whole point of education? To _learn?_ ” Her ear was starting to hurt from how hard she was pressing the phone to her head. “They’re still bragging about computers from _fifteen years ago_ here.” Did that make her classist, even though she no longer has any wealth to flaunt?

Whatever. She was doing it for her education. She was doing it for her future. Let the vultures stare.

_Vulture_. Shit.

On the other end, Mr Morita let out a long, slow breath. “I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you,” she whispered fervently.

“Don’t thank me, I haven’t done anything yet.”

Liz didn’t argue the point. “Can you also tell my teachers I said thank you?” The emails from Mr Lam, Ms D’Angelo, and the rest of her teachers had been steadily trickling in, but she’d been too ashamed to respond.

“Thank them yourself. I promise, they’ll be glad to hear from you.” His smile sounded a little sad. “I’ll be in touch soon, Liz. Take care of yourself.”

 

Mr Morita sent a meeting request to both Liz and Doris a week later. Liz’s name was actually listed first on the invite; she was a little pleased about that. It felt like her principal actually valued her input rather than having her mother decide everything. She’d read enough coaching manuals to know that these little touches were intentional.

“I have mostly good news,” Mr Morita said when they finally had their three-way call. “We pulled some strings and made a lot of phone calls. I think we can do what you proposed, to a point. Dr Stillwell said it’s not feasible for science classes and anything with a laboratory or hands-on component.”

Liz wrinkled her nose. “Who’s Dr Stillwell?”

“He replaced Mr Harrington as the science department head. And he’s correct—for safety reasons, we can’t have you do labs via distance, even if you could get the equipment. That said, you’ve taken a lot of AP courses and you already have enough science credits to graduate. So unless you intend on applying to a particularly competitive STEM program, I don’t think it’d be a problem.”

“I’m not.” She had planned on going into political sciences. Not sure how well that’d work out now.

Her mother frowned. “What about her current classes? The ones she’s taking now at her current school.”

“You’ve a couple of options. You can complete them normally if you’re confident you didn’t miss much, or can catch up to anything you missed, during the transfer to Oregon and back. If you’re not confident, you can withdraw and try again next term via distance, or even defer graduation and take them in the summer.”

“No,” Liz said automatically. “I can do it.”

Her mother shot her a sidelong look. Mr Morita sounded a little resigned. “I figured you’d say that.”

Liz flushed. Her hands laced tightly in her lap.

“Midtown is set up for distance education, so electronically administering your regular school exams won’t be a problem. However, you will have to come back for the Regents Examinations. We’re on a two-term system, so you’ll have to return for your first Regents Examinations in a little over a month.”

Doris drew a sharp breath. “That’s tight.”

“I can do it,” Liz insisted.

“Liz…”

“Look, before all this happened, I was planning to take those same exams anyway.” She couldn’t glare down her principal, so she glared at her mother, mouth tight and fists clenched. “So I only lost, what, a month? I can catch up to a month. I _can._ ”

“It’s your decision,” Mr Morita said gently into the silence. “But you do have to make the decision soon.”

“There’s nothing to decide,” she said flatly. “I’ll take the exams as usual.”

“All right,” he said finally, when it was clear Doris wasn’t going to protest further. “Ideally you’d come back and take the exams with the rest of the school, but I understand socially it might be pretty difficult for you. I can let you take your tests in a separate room if you wish, but you will have to take them at the same time as everyone else, so make sure your flight times work. Do you have somewhere you can stay for the multiple-day exams? Those cousins you mentioned?”

“I’ll figure something out,” Liz said slowly, mind spinning. Maybe Betty would let her crash on the couch?

“I’m going to send you a lot of paperwork. I need both of you to read them, sign them, fax them back to the school as soon as possible, _and_ mail the originals back. We will need the originals on file, but we can get our side started with the fax copies. It’s a bit late today, but tomorrow I’ll work with your teachers on adapting the curriculum for distance ed if any of them don’t already have it prepared.”

Her mother sighed like she’d been holding her breath. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” and there was a genuine, if tired, smile in those words. Liz looked at the time on her mother’s phone, calculated the time difference, and winced. She wondered how many extra hours he’d spent in the office for this.

“Thank you,” Liz echoed, her voice cracking a little on the last word. The attacks and gossip cut to the bone, but it was kindness that did her in. “Thank you so much.”

“Good luck, Liz. We’re rooting for you.”

 

Liz kept the news to herself for a while. Some part of her still couldn’t believe this was happening. Doubt and disbelief swirled a poisonous black cloud in her head even as she withdrew from her Oregon school, even as she mailed the reams of paperwork back as instructed.

It wasn’t until Mr Morita sent back a “paperwork received; instructions to follow” email did the relief really sink in.

She told the decathlon team first, on the group Hangouts she hadn’t used since she left for Oregon. It was four in the afternoon in on a random New York Thursday, but there was such an immediate flood of messages she wondered if the entire team paused practice to respond to her.

_Ned: omg_

_Flash: YUUUUUUUUS_

_Peter: Congrats Liz_

_MJ: thats good_

_Charles: omg Liz Im so happy for you!!!!_

Michelle’s response was markedly less exuberant than the others, though she could just be her usual austere self. Flash’s next message arrived with his trademark sensitivity:

_Flash: so ur back on the team?_

That stung more than she’d like to admit, but she quickly sent her answer.

_Liz: No, I’m just doing distance ed. No decathlon. You’re in good hands._

Michelle sent a thumbs up emoji. Liz figured she and Flash were forgiven.

She kept herself very busy. She shared a class or two with just about every member of the decathlon team, so it was easy to get notes for the weeks she had missed, even if she had to decipher what felt like the handwritten equivalent of 256-bit encryption for some of them. Her inbox received a daily barrage of emails from her teachers: homework, feedback, answers to her questions. Ms D’Angelo kept her apprised of any financial aid she’d be eligible for, and also helped her with submitting an FAFSA adjustment. She barely even has time for her part time job anymore (still Starbucks, but a saner store this time, even if the customers still sucked. At least the coffee helped with late nights). She has no time left to sleep, couldn’t even when she tried.

She didn’t talk to the other kids much and never picked up the phone (not that anyone tried calling, save for a certain hidden number she couldn’t bring herself to answer). For the most part there was no animosity; her old status as the popular girl still helped, even if she wasn’t naive enough to think that _no one_ thought badly of her. But she was no longer _close_ to anyone. They discussed homework and projects when they could, but her online assignments were often different than their in-person ones, and there was no point in participating in chats about decathlon practice or commenting on pictures from the party she hadn’t attended.

She’d always known senior year would be busy, but she hadn’t counted on it being _lonely_. She learned to grow comfortable with—or at least tolerate—being alone in a sea of (virtual) people. She learned to hold the world together with her thoughts.

Liz’d been up to her eyeballs in notes for her latest history paper when her laptop pinged with a Hangouts message from Peter—just Peter, not the group chat.

_Peter: hey Liz_

Liz yanked her eyes from her readings on gold lacquer and Japanese pottery repair techniques to stare at the chat window. She wasn’t going to answer, she—

The “Peter is typing” message floated onto the screen, followed shortly by:

_Peter: I thought Id see how youre doing_

_Peter: I never really apologized for the dance_

Liz pursed her lips. Technically he did, sort of, and besides, what did it really matter? He didn’t have much to apologize for in the end.

Peter stopped typing, evidently waiting for her response. Liz sighed and tried to think of how to reply. She wouldn’t say it was _okay_ , of course it wasn’t, but…

_Liz: Don’t worry about it._

She glanced back at her notes, thinking that would be that, but the “Peter is typing” message floated onto her screen again.

_Peter: I was thinking_

_Peter: I mean I intern with SI so I hear things_

_Peter: I know theyre putting together a new scholarship thing that hasnt been announced yet_

_Peter: Sounds like a lot_

The “Peter is typing” message appeared, disappeared, reappeared, and disappeared again in rapid succession. Peter seemed to be at a loss for words.

_Peter: I know its probably really hard with your dad gone_

_Peter: Maybe this would help some?_

_Peter: I can send you some info_

Liz stared at her screen. A laugh bubbled out of her, but it wasn’t the least bit happy.

She wasn’t opposed to Stark money on principle. She wished she could be, but she was realistic enough to know that unilaterally renouncing Stark money would get her nowhere fast, especially since she was already broke as a joke. Stark Industries sponsored a lot of scholarships; if she got one through her applications then she’d have earned it, fair and square.

But this wasn’t a scholarship. This was Stark’s guilty money. Midtown’s resources were among the best in the country, and there was no way Peter Parker, intern without even a freaking _job description_ (well, not an official one), would catch wind of a generous scholarship before Ms D’Angelo did.

She rubbed her eyes. “How stupid do you take me for, Peter?”

But that wasn’t fair. She hadn’t told him that she knew. Wasn’t sure how to say it. Wasn’t sure if she _should_ , given…everything. He has just as much going on as she did and more to lose, because at least she wouldn’t _literally die_ from a mistake.

_Liz: I’m good. I’ll stick to the scholarships from official channels._

She paused. Peter did mean well.

_Liz: Thanks though._

She logged off the chat before Peter could respond.

 

Twenty minutes after her chat with Peter, she headed out for work.

Six hours after that, Tony Stark walked into her Starbucks.

“Holy shit,” Melissa whispered in Liz’s ear as she scrambled to clean up the cream she had knocked over, “is that—?”

“Uh huh,” Liz said, concentrating very hard on the shots she was pulling. This was the last drink of her shift, and then she could get out of here without worrying about _Tony fucking Stark_ and why he was showing up in Oregon for no reason.

Actually, she has a pretty good guess as to the reason.

She finished the drink, handed it off, and dashed toward the break room before Stark had made his way to the counter (she was vaguely unsurprised that he’d cut the line). Should she make a run for it, or dawdle long enough that Stark would give up?

No, there was no way she’d outrun Stark whether he was on foot, in a car, or in his iron suit. She’d just hide for a bit. Maybe he hadn’t seen her.

Oh, who was she kidding.

Liz huddled in the break room for forty minutes after she’d clocked out. Melissa ran in, freaking out about the _unmodified_ venti London Fog Stark had ordered (“I thought he’d order the world’s most complicated drink!”) and the _three hundred dollar_ tip he’d left. Liz finally left when her store manager threatened to put her back on bar if she hung around any longer.

She couldn’t even pretend to be surprised when she saw Stark a block and a half from the store. Liz briefly entertained the idea of bolting in the other direction, but…what was the point? If he’d made the effort to come all the way to Oregon, he wasn’t going to be deterred by her sad excuse for a hundred yard sprint.

Stark watched her steadily as she approached. Liz kept her chin high and her back straight, every stride oozing confidence she didn’t feel. She stopped two feet from him, and barely resisted flinching when his eyes searched her face.

Stark spoke first, gesturing with his empty cup. “I’ve had better.”

“It’s Starbucks. Not exactly the haute couture of coffee or tea.” Her voice was numb, flat, steady. “Are you stalking me?” He even knew her work schedule.

“Liz, right?” Stark raised his hands in surrender. “I just want to talk.”

“Okay. Talk.”

He fiddled uneasily with paper sleeve on the cup. “Peter is worried about you. Ned, too.”

Her throat closed around the names. “They’re your interns.” For a loose definition of intern, anyway. “Why are you at their beck and call?”

“It’s not about beck and call.” Stark’s infamous charm and bluster were nowhere to be found. In fact, the look on his face reminded her of his press conferences after tragedies: Leipzig, Sokovia. Afghanistan, way back when. “I…know a little something about being betrayed by someone you love.”

The words pierced her. “What, Steve Rogers?”

He raised an eyebrow. “No,” but there was a faint bitterness in the word that might mean yes.

“I’m not taking your money.” It wasn’t just about her dad—that was part of it, yes, but it was about Peter too. The Department of Damage Control’s intervention could have just been shitty luck. Her father made his own choices. But Peter? Stupid, brilliant, earnest, bleeding heart Peter? That was on Peter too, but Peter was fifteen. _Fifteen_.

Adults were supposed to know better. That was why they were _adults_.

Stark was quiet for a moment. “Sure you don’t want to talk it over with your mom first?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” She couldn’t explain without telling on Peter—fuck, her mom might think Tony Stark throwing money at them was some sort of chivalry, making up for her father’s bad choices. She would not take Stark’s tainted money, she would not let him have the satisfaction of even _pretending_ he was making any of this right.

“I hate you,” she informed him flatly, voice thick. “Maybe Dad dug his own grave, but Peter? _Peter?_ ”

Consternation and shock and guilt and something else she couldn’t place flashed across Stark’s face in rapid succession. His mouth opened, silently forming something unprintable. “Just how many—”

Liz gave him her best thousand-yard stare and wondered who else had figured it out. “Peter’s not good at keeping secrets.”

“Yeah, I’m beginning to realize that.” He slumped down on the curb carelessly, eyes staring blankly into the distance. Liz’s chest seized briefly at the ruination of a suit that probably cost at least half a year of their living expenses.

She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of asking. She wouldn’t. But after several moments curiosity got the best of her. “So who was it that betrayed you, if not Captain America?”

Stark looked over at her with an expression that was as much sardony as old pain. “You heard of Obadiah Stane?”

Liz’s breath caught in her throat and the bitterness in her chest loosened sharply. “…yeah.”

Silence fell between them like a grave. A car honked its horn two blocks away. Liz gulped air and finally ventured, in a very small voice, “I thought he died in an accident.”

“Some accidents aren’t.” Stark broke off, as if realizing this wasn’t the time or place. His lips pressed into a straight, numb line. After a moment, he shivered as if breaking out of a reverie. “How’s your mom doing?”

Liz looked down at her shoes. Stark’s haunted eyes burned an afterimage in her mind. “As well as she can, I guess. Job hunting. Moving on.” Maybe one day they’d reconcile the man and the mugshot.

Stark looked like he wanted to ask where Doris was applying, but thought better of it. Maybe he really did understand more than she had given him credit for.

“I’m sorry,” he said instead—honestly, quietly. “Your dad…that was kind of on me. I thought—Damage Control was supposed to _prevent_ that sort of thing.” He looked down at his own hands like he could see the blood there. “I’ve become…the origin story for a lot of people.”

Liz drew in a shuddering breath. She _would not_ cry. “I’m still not taking your money.” It didn’t have the venom from before.

“Okay.” Stark smiled at her. It was small and twisted and sad. “Can I give you a ride at least?”

Liz nodded mutely. It wasn’t judgement, it wasn’t forgiveness. It was a concession.

It was an apology.

 

She flew back for the first set of her Regents Examinations in January. Her mother hugged her goodbye at the airport, tears in her eyes. “Good luck. I love you.”

Liz hugged her back, clinging a little. “Thanks, Mom.” It came out shaky.

Mr Morita offered to let her take the exams in a separate room; she gratefully accepted the kindness. Distance education allowed her to be blissfully ignorant of of the gossip. She didn’t want feel glares drilling into her back during her graduation exams.

A roster of teachers proctored her exams, rotating in hour-long shifts. Most of them spent the time marking. Sometimes Liz snuck peeks at their papers when she was blanking on answers. She glimpsed everything from Shakespeare to ions to quadratic equations.

She finished her last answer and eased out of her chair. On the other end of the table, Dr Stillwell looked up. He was the only teacher she hadn’t met before, a stout man with a mop of dark hair. “Done?”

“Yeah.” She circled around the table rather than make him get up. As she passed her paper over, she glimpsed his reading materials. They weren’t quizzes, but several scholastic articles on… “Scorpions?”

He grinned at her. “I’m a biologist by trade. My PhD thesis was about the effects of scorpion venom on sodium channels. I still like to keep up with the latest and greatest when I can.” His eyes gleamed. “They are excellent hunters, scorpions. I’ve seen them dismember wolf spiders almost twice their size.” A pause. “I also have a special interest in flies.”

Liz stared. “Okay.” To each their own, she supposed. She crossed the room and picked up her bag and jacket from where they laid against the wall. “Thanks.”

He smiled at her and she crept out of the conference room, waving briefly at Mr Campbell as she passed him in the hall.

The principal’s office door was open. Mr Morita was at his desk, staring intently at his computer.

Liz knocked softly. “Mr Morita?”

The principal looked over. “Oh, Liz. Come in.” He glanced at his watch. “You finished early.”

Liz was faintly touched that he’d been timing her exams. “It wasn’t hard.” She’d always been good at history.

That earned her a smile. “Glad to hear it.”

Liz stole a glance at him. Despite the warmth crinkling his eyes, he looked exhausted, like he could use one of her eight-shot drip coffees. He’d loosened his tie and for the first time, she noticed the white peppering his hair, the lines in his face. “Thanks again for all your help. I hope you didn’t stay too late arranging everything.”

“It’s all right. I stay late pretty often.” A slightly wry smile. “It’s quieter after school’s out. Lets me think.”

Liz gave him a sidelong look. She’d always thought people who said stuff like that had problems they were running away from. Then again, he was probably just trying to make her feel better.

“How are you doing?” he asked, concern and sympathy clear on his face.

Liz looked down into her hands. Her heart skipped a beat in her chest. She hadn’t prepared for this conversation, though she should’ve expected it. “I’m okay.”

He tilted his head at a chair in invitation; after a moment, Liz slunk in. He waited until she had sunk into the chair as far as was humanly possible before saying, gently, “How’s life in Oregon?”

“Busy.” She shrugged. It was true; between work and distance ed, she didn’t have much time for socializing. Or sleeping. Or much of anything. “Boring.”

His mouth quirked slightly, sadly. “Yeah?”

“It’s…hard to make friends. I spend a lot of time at home. I have coworkers, I guess.”

A long moment passed. “What are your plans for college? If you don’t mind me asking.”

She shrugged rigidly in her seat, not meeting his eyes. “I’m not sure yet. I didn’t get accepted into the few places I applied for Early Decision.” It was probably for the best; she couldn’t turn them down if they accept her, and there was no way she would’ve scraped up the money to go. Student loans were such a fucking racket.

Her mother had sat her down for a painful and very realistic talk about her finances, and she’d relayed the same to Ms D’Angelo. “I’ve sent the rest of my applications in. Depending on which ones accept me in March or April, I can…defer my acceptance and work a gap year, or take the debt.”

“Community college not an option?” It was gentle, with not a hint of judgement.

She grimaced anyway. “I’ve thought about it.” Even thinking about it tasted like failure. She’d spent her whole life planning for Ivy League. “But community college credits don’t always transfer. The better the school, the less likely they are to accept.” In fact, all the schools she’d wanted to go to likely wouldn’t accept the credits. “I’d have to choose my school ahead of time and then find a community college program tailored to it.”

Her mother was still hoping for a position at a college and register her under a tuition remission program, but it was anyone’s guess if or when she’d get such a position. And who knew whether that hypothetical school would be one she’d be interested in attending.

Liz looked down into her lap, lips trembling despite herself. The principal wordlessly slid a box of tissues across his desk. She took a tissue and shredded it in her fingertips.

“I had it all planned out.” The words were dull. “But as it is right now, even with scholarships, I can’t afford my top-choice schools. I can’t carry that much debt.” Some part of her recalled Tony Stark’s offer with a pang of bitter regret.

Mr Morita’s eyebrows rose slightly, surprise and pity and something that looked like anger flitting across his face. “The quality of education at community colleges can be as good, or better, than universities,” he offered.

“Yeah,” she agreed tonelessly. “Maybe.” At least her decathlon friends were mostly younger than her. She didn’t know what she’d do if they all could go to their dream schools and she couldn’t. “We’ll see. I still have a bit of time to decide.”

No use crying about it now. And if she stayed here, she really would start crying. She pushed back her chair, the shredded tissue raining down onto the carpet. “I should go. You have work to do, and I need to catch a plane. Thank you for all your help,” she added sincerely. “Oregon…doesn’t have the resources we do here.”

His answering smile was faint and sad. “Any time, Liz.”

 

The second term was considerably easier than the first. Those first frantic months of cramming made everything after looked easy, or maybe she just cared less. Michelle sent her texts about the decathlon team and Liz even managed to respond occasionally. Midtown did not end up winning the nationals, but they scored well; Michelle and Dr Stillwell were settling into their roles. The team would be a force to be reckoned with next year without her dragging them down.

Her father had been indicted and his case went to trial. Doris followed the news coverage but wouldn’t let Liz watch. “I don’t want you to get distracted right now, honey,” she’d told Liz. “You’ve worked so hard for everything. I promise I’ll tell you if there is any big news.”

She was probably right. Liz watched them anyway when her mother was at work, and cried through every one.

By the time she sat her last Regents Examinations in June, the concept of high school was almost surreal. Her everyday friends had morphed from exuberant teens to words on a screen. Her teachers had gone from friendly authorities to an endless stream of emails (and with far more typos than she had expected from teachers). These days she could spend upwards of fourteen hours a day with no company other than the silverfish in her room. When she walked onto Midtown’s campus for the final time, she almost felt as if she’d walked into another universe. They were so…loud. So alive.

Liz handed in her last exam through a strange fog of detachment, like the results didn’t concern her, even though she’d fought for this, even though these were her _graduation exams_. She felt bittersweet and wrung out and empty and bleak. A chapter of her life was closing.

Maybe this was what adults felt like when they looked at children.

Liz spent some time going around campus, saying her goodbyes to the staff. The principal was last; she spotted Mr Morita in his closed office, writing.

He looked busy. Liz was just about to sneak away when he spotted her through the glass and waved.

Liz opened the door, feeling slightly foolish. “Sorry, am I interrupting?” She closed the door behind her, just in case.

“No, it’s fine. The photocopier was beeping a lot so I closed the door to block it out. I was hoping you’d stop by.” Mr Morita tilted his head slightly. “Congratulations. How do you feel?

Liz looked down at her hands and shrugged. “Tired.” Relieved. Hollow. She wasn’t sure.

“For whatever it’s worth,” he offered, “I’m very proud of you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’ve been through a lot and accomplished so much, all by yourself. I think most college and graduate students could learn from you. I know plenty of adults who could learn from you. Your parents—” a slight pause on the plural “—must be proud.”

Some distant part of her did feel something resembling pride. Maybe she’d feel it later. How much later, she wasn’t sure. _Feelings_ didn’t mean much nowadays. “My grades dropped.”

“I would very surprised if you don’t get the honours designation on your Regents Diploma.”

She shrugged and didn’t argue further, instead looking at the things on his desk because she didn’t know how to meet his eyes. Stacks of paper, file folders, a fountain pen, a bottle of dark blue ink, a box of glucose test strips, a small glass vial with clear liquid inside…

_Insulin Glulisine._ Liz blinked. “I thought people used those pens nowadays,” she said unthinkingly.

His mouth quirked. “This is cheaper. Being chronically ill is expensive.”

“Oh.” Even now, with a newfound appreciation for money and how hard it was to earn it, her past privilege showed. “Sorry.”

He didn’t seem offended, but she couldn’t meet his eyes, flicked her gaze around instead to find something else to stare at. Her gaze landed on the fountain pen.

His gaze followed hers. “Gift from a friend.”

“It’s pretty.” It was a sleek, heavy looking thing, gunmetal grey with a herringbone pattern.

“I justify it with how much writing I do. Even in the age of computers, I still use it a lot. Easier to write with too. I can’t go back to ballpoints.”

“Maybe I’ll get one for college.” Maybe fancy pens and new stationery could take out a bit of the sting. She doubted it, but hey.

“What did you ultimately decide for college?”

Another shrug, almost indifferent. “I deferred my acceptance to Columbia. I have a year to get my stuff together, figure out funds.” She’d spent her life working for this, only for the target to move at the eleventh hour. It left her empty and adrift. “I’ll have to reapply for scholarships, save up a bit. If my mom gets that college job, we’ll figure out whether it’s worth reneging on Columbia.” It probably wouldn’t be. “Sorry for wasting your time corralling the reference letters.”

He shrugged like he didn’t accept that as worth apologizing for. “Are you coming back for the graduation ceremony?”

“No.” It wasn’t worth the plane ticket, and she was overstaying her welcome at Betty’s as it was.

“I’ll make sure the Board of Regents send your diploma to your Oregon address.” She finally looked up at him; he offered a smile. “What are your plans now?”

“Visit my dad, pick up more shifts at work. Get a new job.” She’d applied at some nonprofits geared towards providing funding for students pursuing post-secondary. It was at once fitting and a special brand of irony. “I’m a bit jealous of Ned. And Peter.” People not in the know would probably be more jealous of Peter’s ongoing “internship” than Ned’s completed one, even though Ned’s internship had made him so famous he has his own Wikipedia page. No one spared the Washington Monument a second thought anymore.

Mr Morita’s mouth curled sardonically. “Peter’s internship is not worth envying. He does good work, don’t get me wrong. But I wouldn’t recommend it. Not that I have a say, or anything.”

She frowned at him, brows furrowing. He looked back steadily, eyebrows raised. She turned his words over in her head…

…and then the penny dropped.

“I,” she spluttered. “You—?”

He nodded.

Words failed her. Her mouth opened and closed for a few moments before she finally choked out, “ _when?!_ ”

“A long time ago. I admit I have a dim view of teenagers’ ability to keep secrets.”

Some part of her was a bit offended by that. _She_ hadn’t told anyone. “And me?”

“Mr Stark told me about you.”

Of course he did. A lot of things suddenly made sense, down to Mr Morita’s prior surprise about her actually being broke. He probably hadn’t expected she’d turn Stark down. Hadn’t expected she’d reject her own dreams out of—pride, maybe. Spite.

The reminder sparked a fresh wave of bitterness like a band around her chest. It was an odd feeling. It was _a_ feeling, the first in a long time to break through the leaden fog. “Are you going to tell Peter about me?”

“Mr Stark already has.”

No wonder Peter could only talk to her in the group Hangouts. In fairness, she couldn’t bring herself to text him privately either. It was almost hilarious, in a demented way. The principal knew but hadn’t turned Peter in? Why had he not turned Peter in?

…she hadn’t turned Peter in either.

“Liz,” Mr Morita’s voice was very gentle, hesitation painted clear on his face. “I wouldn’t have said anything, but after today, I’m no longer your principal. And Mr Stark pointed out…well, Peter has his support system to share his burdens.” He shrugged, looking a little lost. “You shouldn’t have to carry yours alone.”

Some part of her appreciated the offer, the candor that made him vulnerable. At least _someone_ was straight with her. “I’m not alone.” She has her mother, even if her mother didn’t know.

“Fair. I just thought…” he trailed off uncertainly. They stared at each other across the desk, little boats without anchor.

A sharp knock made them both jump. Liz turned to see Flash push open the door, dark eyes glinting.

“Oh good, I caught you,” he said breathlessly. “C’mon, we’re going out for dinner.”

“We? Who’s we?”

“MJ, Parker, Betty, the entire team,” Flash said impatiently. “Last time you left before we could grab you, but you’re not getting away this time. We’re treating.”

“I thought you were paying off—”

“Pfft, finished that months ago. _Come on_.” Flash grabbed her by the hand and physically dragged her out.

There was no stopping Flash when he was like this. Liz let Flash pull her away, limp and unresisting. “Thanks,” she called back, a soft croak.

The principal waved back, looking a little troubled.

 

Her Regents Diploma arrived four weeks into the summer, complete with Advanced Honours designation. She also received a package a few days after the diploma: a dark purple Pilot Metropolitan fountain pen, complete with an ink cartridge. There was a card.

_Congratulations. Keep in touch._

Liz traced the stark blue letters, the varying line widths. She turned the padded envelope over to look at the return address.

Maybe she’d send him a bottle of ink. The thought exhausted her.

It’d finally stopped raining and flipped into gorgeous sunshine. Her house no longer smelled like mildew day after day. Even now, well into late afternoon, the sun burned a lazy heat into her bones. Save for bathroom trips and answering the postman’s knock, she hasn’t left her bed. She needed a shower and a toothbrush. Her hair was a mess.

She popped the cartridge into her new pen and spent a few moments idly toying it through her fingers. There was a half-written letter to her father on her desk, still incomplete after two weeks. With Herculean effort, Liz reached over and picked up the paper.

_Hi Dad,_

_Here’s something to read._

_I just got a job at a nonprofit so I’ll be pretty busy, but I’ll come visit as soon as I get enough for a flight. I deferred my acceptance to Columbia_

She stared at the paper blankly. The idea of finishing the letter suddenly seemed physically painful. It’d taken her the better part of four days to find a box for the thrifted Calvin and Hobbes paperback that her mother had purchased. Doris had also printed the shipping label for her, giving her worried looks the entire way.

Slowly, as if in a daze, Liz tore off the blank half of the letter, the written half fluttering uselessly to the ground. She stared at the scrap numbly like she didn’t understand what it was. Then, woodenly and with great effort, she uncapped her new pen and jotted two words.

She flopped back onto her bed as if that act had drained all her energy. Her eyes closed. The pen slipped from nerveless fingers onto the stained carpet.

The scrap of paper gleamed wetly in the afternoon sun, the ink seeping into cheap paper.

_Love, Liz_

**Author's Note:**

> My eternal thanks to Nyxelestia, without whom I’d still be stuck on “Liz moves to Oregon and…something?” as a plot.
> 
> I believe Liz exclaimed “right before nationals?” in the movie, but per the USAD calendar, decathlon nationals occur in April. I went with the calendar and assumed the movie meant they had made it to the nationals. And I’m still hoping for a Harlan Stillwell-related sequel, hence the Scorpion/Human Fly hints, but so far I’ve got nothing.
> 
> As far as I know in the real world you can’t do online learning when you leave the school’s home district. That said, in a world with Iron Man, I feel like I can fudge a few details—and have Ken make Tony make Pepper work some magic. :) Both my research and my American informants tell me that the high school Liz graduates from strongly affects the schools and scholarships she’d be eligible for. I figure she’s been through enough, especially since this is a much “lonelier” fic than the Administrivia series and she is depressed and burned out by the end; I want her to have some sort of win for what this cost her. As usual, all mistakes and liberties taken with the education system are my own.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://overzelos.tumblr.com) and [Dreamwidth](http://overzelos.dreamwidth.org) if anyone wants to say hello.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Equanimity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12114399) by [Nyxelestia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyxelestia/pseuds/Nyxelestia)




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